


Love like in the Movies

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Bisexuality, Denial of Feelings, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Halloween, Implied Oral Sex, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Movie References, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, he gets roped into being Derek Hale's fake boyfriend in exchange for an introduction to Lydia Martin, Stiles's long-standing crush. It doesn't work out like anyone planned.</p><p>or</p><p>Where Stiles and Derek pretend to be boyfriends as a cover story, and Scott thinks it all sounds like the plot of an 80's movie (it is).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story is very loosely inspired by the movie Can't Buy Me Love from 1987, and is intended to be light-hearted, full of pining and denial, and with relatively little douchebaggery. Since I realize the tags might give people some misgivings, this story will be endgame Stiles/Derek via some Derek/OMC, and there will be absolutely NO infidelity of any kind. Also, each new chapter may bring additional tags, so please check back for content that bothers you. Enjoy!

While Derek Hale had technically come out as bisexual in his junior year, it wasn't until Stiles saw him at the movie theater one day, pressing a dark-haired man against the wall with his entire body and the two of them kissing like they were trying to devour each other, that Stiles actually believed it.

His first reaction was far from the feigned ignorance it should have been, which meant he squeaked and dropped his tub of popcorn hard, spilling it everywhere. Kernels immediately rolled across the floor for a mortifying minute, leaving shiny butter trails in their wake until half a dozen of them finally came to a rest against Derek's boot.

Derek and the vaguely-familiar other man both looked at him in annoyed embarrassment, and Stiles wished he could disappear.

"He-ey, guys. Hi. Sorry." Stiles took a rocking step backwards, one foot ready to run while the other stayed stubbornly frozen in place. "Maybe not the best place for that, though? I mean, you are at the movies. Plenty of perfectly good empty theaters around here."

"Stilinski," Derek said, voice flat and intimidating. Well, usually intimidating. It was hard to feel threatened when Derek's lips looked soft and red and loose rather than pressed into a thin, impatient line. 

Red. Red from kissing, and kissing someone else with stubble, too, from the look of it. Stiles couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"Right. Um, I'm…gonna go get more popcorn," he said, and then fled, crunching popcorn underfoot as he went.

He did not get more popcorn, and instead bemoaned the loss of fourteen dollars when he panicked and left the theater entirely, movie still unseen.

***

Scott was sometimes oblivious, but not even he could miss the fact that Stiles had ditched him at the theater, leaving him stranded without a ride home. Stiles was sort of expecting the call when it came, and come it did about four hours later, when he was elbows deep in dish water. He answered it with a sigh, careful to shake the soap suds from his hands first.

"You've reached the Stiles, please leave a message after the—"

"Stiles, what the hell?" Scott interrupted, sounding baffled and slightly shrill, but not nearly as annoyed as Stile had expected considering he'd probably had to bike home. "Did you have an emergency or something? Is your dad okay?"

Stiles felt a twinge of guilt, which was quickly smothered by reassurances from his often-ignored self-preservation instinct.

"Nah, man, nothing like that."

"Then what the hell?"

"Well." Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking audibly as he idly drew patterns across the countertop with one damp finger. "You'll never guess who I ran into when I went to buy popcorn. And by ran into, I mean they were making out with some dude in the hallway."

"Shit, was it Lydia?"

"No, worse. Derek Hale." Stiles waited for a reaction, but Scott was silent on the other end. Stiles felt like he maybe wasn't fully grasping the situation. "I totally interrupted his face sucking session with someone who looked ready to put out right there against the wall. He's going to kill me."

"Stiles, he's not gonna kill you. I know he's not your biggest fan—"

Understatement. Derek hated him, full stop, because of that time Stiles dropped hydrochloric acid on his new boots in chem. lab. And that time Stiles was attempting to moonwalk across the parking lot, tripped, and scratched Derek's sex-mobile. And the day after that, when Stiles tried to make amends by bringing him some homemade muffins, and Derek was apparently allergic to the pinch of cinnamon he'd thrown in as an afterthought.

Stiles was so dead.

"—but he's still not going to kill you. He had your back with the Jackson thing, remember?"

Oh. That was fair; if everyone knew only two things about Derek, one was that he was that he was the gorgeous middle child of the Hale family. The other was that he hated bullies, and had stomped Jackson Whittemore into the ground after Jackson threw Stiles into the pool in freshman year and caused him to chip a tooth on the low dive board.

Stiles ran his tongue over the chip; the damage was fixed now, but the motion was still a habit and a reminder. It helped, because the truth was that Derek probably _wasn't_ going to kill him. What he might do, however, was vindictively overrule every great idea Stiles had at next week's student council meeting, and that was nearly as bad.

Stiles thunked his head against the kitchen cabinet, and ignored the handle that dug into his cheek.

" _Death_ , Scott."

Scott just sighed.

***

Stiles never saw much of Derek at school outside of student council meetings and the occasional lacrosse practice where they briefly shared the bench, but that was only to be expected when they were two years apart. As a result, Stiles had never thought to _avoid_ Derek either, and he was greatly regretting that fact when Derek came stomping towards him on Monday morning, just seconds after Scott disappeared to go lock up his bike.

Stiles considered making a break for it, but he'd seen Derek's legs during lacrosse practice, even admired them in a thirsty-but-clearly-still-pining-for-Lydia-Martin way. There was no way he'd be able to outrun him.

Stiles did the next best thing, and plastered a forced smile on his face before tentatively wiggling his fingers in greeting.

"Hi Derek," he said, loudly enough that some of the students sitting on the steps nearby jumped, and at least one of them shot him a glare over their now-spilled coffee. The volume was half on purpose; Stiles felt like he might need witnesses for this.

All of that was moot, however, when Derek simply said "Stilinski" back, and then proceeded to pull him inside. Stiles considered making a show of struggling, but Derek's hand on his arm was gentle, more guiding than dragging, and that was surprising enough that he didn't. Surprising that Derek, captain of the lacrosse team with muscles upon muscles and a near constant frown, could be gentle.

Stiles didn't want to break whatever spell had come over him, and so he let Derek pull him into a nearby boy's restroom. It was only when Derek dropped his arm and started testing the stalls and looking for feet in each of them that Stiles snorted, because talk about paranoia.

"Dude, chill. The only people here this early are overachievers and athletes, and none of them are spying on your potty break."

Derek shot him a very unimpressed look.

"This conversation should stay _private_ ," he said, and the emphasis placed on 'private' heavily implied that he thought Stiles wasn't really capable of that without a reminder. Stiles bristled.

"What conversation? All you've done so far is be creepy in the bathroom."

Derek looked almost amused at that, his lips twitching upwards slightly, which was new. Stiles had been trying not to look at his mouth—an urge which was _not_ new—but at least now he had an excuse to stare.

He was probably too obvious about it, because the frown came back all too quickly.

"Stilinski," he said, sharp enough that Stiles snapped out of his daze. "I need you to…not tell anyone. What you saw on Saturday."

Stiles stared for an entirely different reason.

"Come again?" Stiles may not know Derek very well, but he never seemed like he was ashamed of who he was interested in. Hell, he'd come out during his candidate speech when he was running for student council president, and then _dared_ people not to vote for him; Derek was fearless.

Derek didn't look fearless at the moment; he just looked young, and like he was growing more impatient by the second.

"Marcus," Derek said, seeming reluctant to spit the name out, "is older than me. It wouldn't look good for him to be dating a high school student."

Stiles narrowed his eyes; he wasn't a cop's kid for nothing, and sometimes "buzzkill" was his middle name.

"How much older?"

"Not much. College. He goes to Chico State."

"Wait." Something clicked, a rapid fire realization of _Marcus_ obviously being Derek's _boyfriend_ rather than just a make out buddy, followed by the reason he'd looked so familiar. "Marcus _Mendiola_? The pitcher for the Wildcats?"

Underneath his scowl, Derek looked slightly alarmed that Stiles had recognized the name. Stiles wasn't surprised by the reaction; "not much" to Derek clearly meant "twelve years," and "college" clearly meant "non-traditional student, old enough to concern my parents." No wonder he was worried.

Stiles sighed, unsure whether he should be grateful or not that his dad had dragged him to all those CSU baseball games in the spring. On the one hand, baseball with his dad. On the other hand…situations like this.

"You don't half-ass things, do you?" Derek glared at him in response, a clear signal to stop talking, possibly forever. Stiles ignored it. "That's a big age difference, dude."

Derek crossed his arms, leather jacket creaking, and then made a harrumphing noise like the old man Stiles sometimes suspected he was. 

"Don't lecture me. It's not like you wouldn't do the same thing if a hot college student was interested in _you_."

That was probably true, but it was also widely known that Stiles had poor impulse control and shouldn't be used as a basis of measurement.

Derek was looking sort of prickly, though, so Stiles didn't mention that.

"Relax, dude; I'm not going to tell anyone." Well, the Marcus Mendiola aspect, anyway. He'd be talking for days about Derek corralling him in the bathroom. "But, you know, maybe you should consider threatening a few other people? You guys weren't exactly discreet."

"I'm not _threatening_ you," Derek argued, and then he paused. "What do you mean 'not discreet'?"

"You guys were making out in a hallway, in the only movie theater in Beacon Hills. I don't think I'm the only one who noticed. If people don't ask you about your boyfriend today, I'd be really surprised."

Derek stiffened, face slackening in shock like it hadn't occurred to him that other people besides the three of them had been in the theater. A tense minute followed where neither of them said a word, and Stiles took that as his cue to go.

"Well, I'm outta here—"

Derek snagged him by the back of his hoodie before he'd taken two steps. Stiles exaggerated his attempts to pull away, making gagging noises and wildly flapping his arms.

"Stiles." 

Stiles froze immediately. Derek had never called him anything other than "Stilinski," and he'd never used that quiet, serious voice with him either.

"I need you to date me."

Stiles flailed backwards and nearly fell on his ass, stopped only by Derek catching him. They stayed pressed together for a brief second, and Stiles wondered if he should be hyperventilating; Derek was so _warm_ , his chest firm against Stiles's back while his jacket zipper dug into his shoulder blade, and the sensations made it impossible to figure out what he'd actually _meant_. It couldn't be how it sounded.

Derek rocked him back on his feet and stopped touching him, and Stiles was finally able to think. It didn't clear up his confusion at all.

"Run that by me again?"

A muscle twitched in Derek's jaw, and he tucked his hands into his obscenely tight jean pockets, then pulled them out again.

"I need you to be my boyfriend. If anyone asks." Derek's eyes flickered to the floor, then back to Stiles's no doubt gaping face. His expression was almost earnest. "I don't get to see Marcus much, but my parents would be cool with me going out to hang with you. They like you."

What the hell. Stiles had met Derek's parents exactly once, under really terrible circumstances. He was surprised they remembered his name.

"So…pretending? Not, like, actual dating?" Stiles asked, and he cleared his throat, then cleared it again. It was like he had something caught there, all of a sudden.

"Yeah." Derek smiled at him, just slightly, and it felt like someone had grabbed Stiles's lungs. "Not forever, just until the semester is over. Just…I'll call you, and you can show up when we go to the movies, or a club or something. So people can see us together."

"Should I be concerned about that, since all of your dates apparently happen in poor lighting?"

The smile slipped from Derek's face, replaced with his much more normal scowl. It was a huge relief.

"Are you in or not?"

"And what would I be getting out of this?" Stiles asked, waving between them and meaning the entire situation, where Stiles was supposed to awkwardly third-wheel it on months of dates with Derek and his older boyfriend, all in the quest to get Derek laid. He wasn't even sure what to call it, actually, this opposite of cock-blocking. Cock-guiding? Cock-abetting?

Derek sighed like Stiles was getting on his last nerve.

"Look. You like Lydia Martin, right?"

Stiles scoffed and had to correct that. One did not simply like Lydia Martin.

"Um, love. Love would be the term."

"I'll introduce you."

Stiles was about to say that was a stupid thing to offer because he obviously already _knew_ Lydia, but he clicked his mouth closed before the words could escape.

He might know Lydia, but she had never tried to know him. She at least deigned to interact with Derek, due to lacrosse and his innate model-level hotness. Theoretically, she might want to meet his boyfriend. Be friends with him, even.

It was _perfect_.

"Yeah. That…that could work," Stiles finally said, trying for cool and missing by a mile. Derek rolled his eyes.

"Good. Give me your number."

For once, Stiles didn't argue with him. 

***

By the time Stiles came out of the bathroom, Scott was already waiting for him at their table. He looked up from his math book, a barely-there nod of acknowledgement as he frantically tried to cram both studying and breakfast into the next half hour.

Stiles sat down, feeling a little dazed. He watched Scott take a bite of cereal. Chew.

"You know," he began, and Scott inclined his head to show he was listening. "I think I'm sort of dating Derek Hale."

Scott choked in shock, and then spit half-chewed cereal all over the quadratic formula and the table, narrowly missing a passing teacher.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles had been aware of how quickly the rumor mill churned ever since he'd gone out _once_ with Kara Wilson in the eighth grade and been haunted by it ever since, and so he naturally spent the rest of Monday looking for any changes in the status quo. It wasn't the easiest thing to monitor, considering he and Scott were barely on the fringe of popularity, but he figured if he was just fast enough, he could catch a hint of something from the gaggle of gossips. A whisper. A look. 

By the time his last class ended, all Stiles had to show for his attentiveness was a crick in his neck and the absolute certainty that he had received a lot of weird looks, although he wasn't sure if that was due to any rumors or his own uptick in weirdness. It was all very disappointing, and around the third time he sighed morosely while tugging on his lacrosse uniform, Scott whapped him upside the head. 

Stiles flailed into the open door of his locker, nearly shutting it on his fingers.

"Dude," he whispered, all too aware of the other players nearby. Vigilance, constant vigilance. "I could've lost a hand. Who will help you with your homework if I lose a hand?"

He waved his hand in front of Scott's face, trying to emphasize his torn nail and the general value of his hand in one swoop. He thought he did a pretty good job.

"My mom, probably," Scott answered, completely missing the point and also not whispering at all. "Why are you acting so weird?"

"Things. There are things afoot, that's all. You should finish getting dressed."

Stiles shifted, tugging at his jersey pointedly and receiving nothing but a concerned look in return. It figured; Scott was scarily perceptive about one day a month, and he would obviously choose to start paying attention the day Stiles was trying to covertly implement his latest harebrained scheme. Scott knew him so well.

(Although, really, it was Derek's scheme; Stiles was completely prepared to admit that when it inevitably went wrong.)

Scott leaned forward, close enough that Stiles could smell his deodorant. It looked totally suspicious.

"Is this about what you said this morning? I thought you were joking?"

"Later, Scott. I'll explain later," he promised, meaning after they'd stopped running around and were sentenced to the bench, watching with undisguised longing while other people practiced under Coach's eagle eye. It was pretty much how lacrosse practice went.

Later turned out to be a _lot_ later, however, because it wasn't Coach running that day's practice; it was Derek.

Stiles spluttered for a good moment at seeing Derek standing there in his normal clothes and a _whistle_ , and Derek shot him a look over the clipboard that was at least 40% scowly eyebrows. Scowl brows.

"Stilinski." He nodded in his direction, voice neutral. He was actually pretty bad at selling the "totally dating Stiles" thing, as it turned out, or maybe Stiles had just seen too many telenovelas when he was flipping through the channels. Either way, he felt there should definitely be more longing glances, maybe a little more Spanish—he was pretty sure Derek knew Spanish.

"Where's Coach?" Stiles asked, before his brain could dive too deeply into far-fetched theories about evil twins and blackmail and Derek with a mustache. Definitely too much TV.

"He had a thing. Go line up with the others."

"Yes sir, Dictator Derek."

Stiles gave a jaunty salute as he jogged off, and he thought he heard Derek huff, an aborted almost-laugh. It was probably his imagination, but it made him smile a little anyway.

The smile faded quickly, because while Coach was sometimes mean, Derek was clearly a sadist. After having them do more wind sprints and goddamn burpees than Stiles could ever remember doing _in his life_ , Stiles could feel the bench calling his name. It was almost a relief, albeit one that was short lived; he'd barely taken that first wobbly step towards salvation when Derek called him back.

"Stilinski. You're on goal."

Stiles was sure that wasn't on his instructions from coach; Derek had apparently gone mad with power. Also, it was probably a terrible idea and Stiles could barely feel his legs. 

He felt a thrill of excitement anyway. 

"Danny's the goalie. Right?" He shot a glance at Danny, who looked curious but mostly unbothered by the change in positions. Danny was cool like that.

Derek shrugged and marked something off on the clipboard, the same thing he'd been doing all afternoon. Stiles had been amusing himself by thinking Derek was just doodling _Derek + Marcus_ everywhere with little hearts in the margins of each page, but now he wondered if it wasn't actually something lacrosse-related.

"You could use the practice."

Which, mean but accurate, and Stiles didn't care. He got to _play_ , even if it was only in one of their short mock games. Scott was already on the bench, jittering with excitement for him.

"Sure…I can do that. Sure."

Stiles, as it turned out, wasn't that great at being a goalie. Oh well; at least Derek had let him try.

***

That evening, Stiles was propped up on the couch with ice on his knee when his phone chimed from the coffee table, twice in quick succession. He reached for it, nearly upending his bowl of chips and twisting his knee all over again, but it was worth it when the first text he saw was from an unknown number.

**Hey**

Short, succinct, and entirely unhelpful. Stiles snorted and entered "DH" into his contacts, typing back a quick response afterwards.

**i nearly died trying to answer this, so you better be derek**

The reply came before Stiles had done more than raise a chip to his mouth. He glared at the phone.

DH: **It's Derek. How's the knee**

**feels like it's been hit with a lacrosse ball.** Derek didn't respond immediately, but Stiles wasn't deterred. He'd opened up lines of communication first; Derek would never get rid of him now. **how's the face?**

DH: **There's nothing wrong with my face. Are you twelve or something**

Stiles had a whole list of insults he could use to counter that. He was prepared. He was ready. He was—

His phone chimed again.

DH: **Are you free Saturday**

Stiles's fingers twitched, halfway to responding. 

DH: **Marcus wants to see that Dracula movie**

Stiles felt his stomach lurch; clearly, chips were not the best post-injury snack. He typed back quickly, and set his chips aside.

**sure, just give me a time**

Derek responded back with, of all things, a winky face. 

Stiles chuckled, and then checked his other message.

Scott: **Dude, Derek let you play! You really are dating him!**

Stiles laughed until his sides hurt, and his dad came home a few minutes later to find him alternating between clutching his knee and his ribs, bowl of chips upended on the floor.

***

The week passed quickly after that, and while Stiles was constantly on the lookout for things changing, nothing really did. Once Coach came back on Tuesday, Stiles no longer got to play in practice. Derek didn't really speak to him that much, and he still shut Stiles's suggestions down with alarming speed in the student council meeting on Wednesday. Stiles caught Lydia's eye once on Thursday, but aside from her actually acknowledging that (by pointedly looking away rather than simply ignoring him) that wasn't that different either.

By Saturday morning, Stiles was already regretting that he had to do _anything_ that night, much less see a probably terrible movie in the company of someone who _mostly_ didn't like him. It was sure to be a laugh a minute, and with his dread in mind, he put it off until he reasonably couldn't ignore it anymore. Unfortunately, he'd walk through the fires of hell before he'd miss the previews, and that meant being early.

Due to the hour, the theater was mostly quiet when he showed up, and Stiles felt a sense of impending doom when the cashier handed him his change, exactly one of each coin, and Stiles said "you too" back instead of anything that made sense. After getting his popcorn and drink, Stiles sat in the exact center of the back row, and he really hoped Derek wouldn't say anything about it. Like, anything. He just liked the back row, okay, and Scott had days where he squinted so hard Stiles thought his eyelids were stuck together, so the back row wasn't always an option.

The explanation sounded a little defensive, even to him, but he fortunately didn't have to use it. Aside from a guy three rows forward who smelled really strongly of cigarettes and a couple of unfamiliar teenagers in the front, he was the only person in the theater. Stiles wondered if he'd gotten the time wrong, or if Derek and Marcus had just found something better to do. Both were equally possible, and Stiles couldn't help checking his phone once and then a second time. 

Nothing. Well, he _was_ super early, even for him; he continued to wait, feeling jittery.

Derek showed up a few minutes later, in nice dark wash jeans and with a blue shirt under his jacket that made his eyes look startlingly green, which in turn made Stiles feel kinda bad. Derek was wearing date clothes, while Stiles was in his best "I don't mind if I get butter and salt on these" clothes. He was clearly a terrible fake boyfriend.

He made up for it by reluctantly moving his elbow off the right armrest, a choice that seemed justified when Derek quietly sat down in the offered seat. Derek wasn't a small guy, between the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and long legs, and it was sort of painful to watch him try to cram himself into a movie theater seat. Stiles raised the armrest because there was no reason to deliberately make it worse by boxing him in, and he was rewarded with a grateful look. 

By the time Derek settled and took off his jacket, they were close enough to brush shoulders every time either of them shifted, which Stiles did, a lot. Derek didn't seem to care, and it was…kind of nice, actually, warm and weirdly comfortable. Stiles completely understood the appeal of movie dates at that moment. Or he would have, if he'd been there with Lydia.

Because he was generous and Derek's arms were empty save for his jacket, Stiles immediately offered him some popcorn. He waggled the bag insistently when Derek continued to ignore him.

"I haven't had movie popcorn in two years," Derek finally said, right around the time Stiles was shaking the bag enough to lose a few kernels to the floor. He sounded apologetic. "Lacrosse."

Stiles made a face, even though he kinda knew where he was coming from. The summer between Derek's sophomore and junior years had been a game changer, literally, when he'd gained something like fifty extra pounds of muscle in three months and turned into the only real choice for the next lacrosse captain. Obviously a diet change had probably helped with that, although up to this point Stiles had been content to credit it to the same magical puberty that had turned him from an adorable freshman to a mind meltingly hot senior.

Stiles continued to shake the bag, but more gently this time.

"Come on. A handful won't kill you."

Derek glanced at him. He might have been trying for a glare, but his eyes kept drifting towards the popcorn bag.

"It's…really bad for you." Which didn't sound like a no.

" _So_ bad," Stiles agreed, keeping the bag extended.

Slowly, Derek reached forward. He grabbed maybe five pieces; although far less than a heaping handful, Stiles couldn't help but smirk in triumph anyway. Derek kicked him lightly in the shin with the side of his foot, but he seemed too enraptured with the greasy buttery goodness to actually say anything.

They munched on popcorn, mostly in silence, while the ads rolled. When Derek started running his tongue over his teeth after sucking the butter off his fingertips, Stiles wordlessly offered him his drink too. He didn't have an extra straw, but that didn't matter, right? The bonds of fake dating would see them through this, probably, and Stiles had shared worse with Scott anyway. Once. In fifth grade.

"If you backwash, so help me God," Stiles warned, and Derek rolled his eyes before taking a sip. 

They sat in silence for another minute, and then:

"You know, you're not actually that bad at lacrosse. Why don't you ever raise your hand when Coach is looking for second line volunteers?"

Stiles snorted, because sure, that would happen.

"I'm pretty sure my genetics volunteered me to be a bench warmer for life, dude."

"That's not true. You didn't catch Jackson's shot—"

Yeah, because Jackson had aimed for his _head_ rather than the net. Stiles had aimed for his balls when he'd tossed it back, which had the desired effect of making him hop on one leg as he tried to dodge. It had been hilarious.

"—but you blocked Thomas, and he's one of our best players." Derek looked at him, more than a brief glance in the dark, and Stiles couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. "You could probably make first line, if you practiced." 

It was a nice thing for Derek to say, and it made Stiles's stomach feel warm, like he'd just chugged a hot cup of coffee. It was the sort of feeling Stiles got when he thought of Lydia, and it almost always made him do something stupid.

It was a good thing, then, that something else caught Derek's eye, making him look away first.

"Oh hey, there's Marcus!" 

Derek stood, then waved and smiled in the direction of the person climbing the stairs. It was a nice smile. Sweet. 

Stiles sucked grumpily at his straw, fully expecting Derek to ignore him from that point on. He was more surprised than was probably fair when Derek _didn't_ ignore him, instead gesturing Marcus forward and introducing them without any sign that Stiles was someone too embarrassing or uninteresting to hang out with.

"Stiles, this is Marcus." Derek flashed another quick smile at Marcus, a flirtatious one probably, although it was hard to tell when all smiles looked equally good on Derek's face. "Marcus, this is Stiles. He's my alibi."

Stiles smiled gamely and juggled his snacks until he could reach out to shake Marcus's hand. Marcus smiled back; his teeth were a little crooked but the smile was no less impressive for that. Stiles supposed he was kind of handsome, with dark hair and light brown skin, but he was both shorter and broader than Stiles, which made their whole scheme seem like a very unlikely success. Stiles just hoped no one was looking that closely.

Stiles nodded in greeting anyway.

"Hey."

"Nice to meet you," Marcus offered, voice polite and faintly accented from somewhere that sounded like the Eastern side of the country. While friendly enough, he didn't seem very interested in Stiles; his eyes kept drifting back to Derek, alternately lingering on the v-neck of his shirt or the strip of skin just above his belt. Stiles sympathized and didn't say anything else, not even when they settled at the far end of the same row, near enough for a conversation if he really stretched the limits of movie etiquette. Stiles tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the screen as the previews began and he mindlessly munched his popcorn, ignoring what sounded like whispers. He was usually pretty good at that.

Unfortunately, it didn't take him very long to realize he couldn't force himself to watch the movie, because what he was watching was _terrible_. Not so-bad-it's-good, not bad-but-visually-nice, but actually terrible, bland and full of plot holes with some bizarre plotline about demons in caves in a _vampire_ movie. Stiles could see why it was called an untold story—clearly, Vlad should've kept it to himself a whole lot longer—and he was turning, prepared to say as much to Scott before he remembered Scott wasn't there.

Then he squinted, pausing mid crunch and mid turn, because he didn't see _Derek_ nearby either. Rather than sitting in the end seat next to Marcus, where he'd been earlier, Stiles could see only Marcus, sitting there with a coat in his lap. Or…a pile of coats, maybe? That didn't really explain why his head was tipped back and his fingers were clenched tight around the armrests, or why his leg kept moving strangely and he was breathing heavy, loud under the sound of ear splitting background music, actually choking off a groan at one point—

Oh.

Stiles snapped his eyes back to the screen, instantly rigid in his seat. So, that was happening; at least he knew where Derek had gone.

And now that Stiles knew what was going on, when the movie went quiet, he heard something that sounded an awful lot like gagging. Derek, with his scowl-by-default expression and soft-looking lips, was choking on a dick ten seats away. To the soundtrack of the worst movie ever. Which Stiles should focus on if he was a good person, instead of angling his popcorn bucket to better cover a sudden, spontaneous hard-on that was at least ten percent caused by being sixteen. Okay, maybe five.

Stiles had _not_ eaten enough popcorn to deserve this sort of torture.

***

Stiles barely paused to throw his jacket on the bed before he had whipped out his phone, because after warring with his conscience and his traitorous boner for the rest of the movie, he knew this had to be said.

**SUBTLETY DEREK**

Derek responded about ten minutes later, during which time Stiles had paced the length of his room two dozen times and nearly tripped over a shoe twice.

DH: **What are you talking about**

**i can't believe you were doing ykw in the backrow omg i'm scarred**

Well. "Scarred" was one word. "Ruined for life," while more accurate, was three. Texting was all about saving time.

Derek took a while to respond to that one, though. Stiles wondered if he was embarrassed or—more likely—angry and plotting vengeance (for Stiles existing nearby even though he'd been invited? He wasn't sure.)

DH: **You should have said something**

Stiles fumbled his phone, wondering if there was a way to convey the general what-the-fuckness of that through text. Because, really, a movie theater? Talk about unhygienic.

Then again, this might, possibly, be why he'd never had sex before.

**i didn't think i'd have to!**  
**i hope you at least used a condom**

There was a reason Stiles was Melissa McCall's best pupil when it came to safe sex talks, and it was for situations like these.

DH: **Fuck you Stilinski**

**not without a condom! ;D**

Derek didn't have anything to say to that, or at least he didn't until an ungodly hour the next morning. Derek was probably out jogging or something like the crazy morning person he was; Stiles barely peeked his head out from under his pillow, a sliver just wide enough to read the texts.

DH: **Sorry**  
DH: **We won't do it again**

Stiles wasn't sure what that meant, but he figured Derek's word was good enough. He didn't bother to respond before he rolled over and went back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

As much as Stiles would have loved to sleep the morning away, his dad knocked on his door to wake him up about three hours later, at an unreasonable 9 o'clock. In keeping with the rest of his weekend, what should have been a quiet Sunday began with Stiles thrashing in surprise, nearly braining himself on his nightstand before he even opened his eyes. Stiles would have complained, but he remembered what day it was—what _Sunday_ it was— before he could do more than make a pitiful noise and halfheartedly chuck a pillow in the general direction of the doorway. This was unfortunately one of the rules of Stilinski Sundays: no complaining about other Stilinskis on pain of docked food privileges, and Stiles already knew he'd be needing a burger that afternoon. Aside from feeling like he'd tossed and turned all night even before his rude awakening, his boxers were tacky and stuck to his skin from a probable wet dream, and his mood was not improved when his dad announced that their father-son bonding that day would be cleaning out the garage.

Four hours of exhausting and sometimes confusing labor later (why did they even own half a pool table? Just half?), Stiles's restraint was rewarded with the biggest, juiciest burger Rosa's Café had to offer. As he took a bite of meaty, spicy, onion-laden goodness, he knew there'd never be another burger for him. Forget nirvana; this was true peace.

Which meant, of course, that his dad chose that time to start a conversation over his own burger, and he decided to lead with, "So. Did you have a good time last night?"

Stiles managed to swallow, but his bite of burger went down rough, and all his enjoyment was lost in light of near-choking and terror. After he managed to breathe again, Stiles couldn't help but gaze sadly at the remaining half of his lunch; so long, peaceful burger.

His dad was still staring at him, only slightly distracted by the once-a-week curly fries he was currently demolishing. Stiles gave it five seconds before his dad ran out of fries and started getting suspicious, because he was the sheriff for a reason.

"The movie? How was it?" His dad prompted before taking a bite of his own burger. It sounded like a normal conversation. Maybe that's all it was.

"Er…terrible, mostly." _Mostly_? Why had he added that?

His dad caught it, although he was probably aided by Stiles immediately following the words with what he knew was an expression of blind panic. The shrewd Stilinski stare was turned on him in a second flat, and his dad set his burger down.

"Mostly?" His dad repeated, then crossed his arms over his chest. It was a classic interrogation pose, and Stiles had seen it enough that he should've been immune to its power. In theory. 

In reality, Stiles usually caved like a four year old's sand castle whenever it was turned on him, so it helped that he was actually innocent this time.

"Well, yeah. Terrible movie. The—the company wasn't bad, though."

"Did you go with Scott?" His dad still looked at him steadily, daring him to attempt the lie.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah, with Scott."

Stiles could never really resist a dare, and his dad knew that; it was a problem. 

In response, his dad just hummed thoughtfully, and took a long sip of his soda. Stiles waited, fingers picking restlessly at the specks of salt on his plate. 

When his dad looked back up, expression cool as ever, Stiles knew he'd been caught.

"That's strange. I could've sworn Talia Hale, our _chief prosecutor_ , mentioned something about her son planning on going there. With you. You know, Derek Hale? He'd be about your age."

Such lies; his dad knew exactly how old Derek was, just like he probably knew how many speeding tickets he'd gotten in his stupidly fast car. His dad would've checked, probably the instant Mrs. Hale stopped talking. Stiles glared half-heartedly.

His dad grinned like he thought he was the funniest person in the world, and Stiles slumped low in his seat.

"Cute, Dad. Really cute." 

"I just like to know what my only son is getting up to these days."

Ah, so it was the "only son" guilt card—Stiles knew it well. It was, unfortunately, not banned from Stilinski Sundays, although he was considering motioning to change that rule.

"Fine. I was at the movies with Derek. In a date type fashion. Everything stayed totally PG, I swear." Well. For Stiles, anyway. He hoped no one'd had the chance to relay _that_ possible rumor back to his dad.

"I believe you. I'm sure Derek respected your boundaries, and you respected his."

Stiles rolled his eyes, because he'd earned the right to be a sullen teenager for a few more minutes, especially since he could see an uncomfortable safe sex talk on the horizon.

"Obviously, Dad." Stiles chewed grumpily on a fry, hoping it would keep him from saying something mortifying, something like _who has boundaries when it comes to Derek Hale?_. "It's really not a big deal."

His dad continued talking like he hadn't heard him.

"And I'm sure you told him that I'll expect him to come to dinner in the near future."

Stiles choked on his fry, and wished for the merciful greasy food gods to kill him quickly. It didn't happen.

Unfortunately, the meal did not improve from there. His dad kept looking at him with quiet pride that he was growing up, a _first boyfriend_ sort of look, and Stiles was rapidly running out of food and thus reasons to avoid meeting his eyes. Thankfully, he was given a brief reprieve before dessert, when his dad went to the bathroom right after they put in their milkshake order. 

Stiles took the opportunity to hurriedly pull out his phone. He had two missed calls from Scott from before he'd obviously remembered what day it was, judging by the quick **sorry!** text. Stiles only sparred it a quick reply of **it's fine dude** before changing conversation threads, because this was something he needed to get across _fast_.

**dude, if we're going to involve parents, i really need a heads up**

He nearly dropped his phone when it buzzed in response immediately. What the hell was Derek even _doing_? Waiting by his phone? On a Sunday?

DH: **I thought you knew**

Stiles began typing, words that empathically pointed out how he did _not_ know and _what the hell_ , when he remembered what Derek had said before: that his parents would be okay with him hanging out with Stiles.

Okay, so maybe he had known—Stiles erased his previous text.

**NOT THE POINT  
i just ate the most awkward burger ever with my dad**

DH: **Was it trying to hit on the fries?**

Stiles snorted, shooting a quick glance towards the bathroom door as he did so. Not funny, so not funny.

 **you're not funny at all  
** **also you're invited to dinner a week from thurs**  
**be there or be dumped**

Long, precious seconds ticked by. Stiles frowned, and his fingers were hovering over the 'w' key when his phone buzzed again.

DH: **Fine**

The answer was short, very Derek, but Stiles felt weird anyway. He heard his dad's footsteps before he had a chance to reply, though, and he hurriedly tucked his phone away, trying not to think about it.

It was only after they had climbed back into his dad's squad car that it occurred to Stiles that, over the course of that entire awkward lunch, his dad hadn't asked about Lydia once, and hadn't been the slightest bit surprised by him dating a guy either.

***

On Monday, Derek came to school with a hickey. It was dark and obvious on the hinge of his jaw, and really impressive considering it was probably (maybe?) two days old. It was also high enough that there was no scarf or turtleneck in the world that could cover it without looking totally suspicious and hilariously hipster, so of course it was all anyone would talk about that morning. Stiles grinned obnoxiously as soon as he saw, which earned him a classic Hale glare before Derek deliberately looked away, rubbing self-consciously at his jaw. There had only been a few people around at the time, just the usual morning stragglers, but that was obviously enough to start the rumor mill since Stiles had been getting weird looks ever sense. Scott had even stopped doing math homework long enough to give him a wordless high five, which was the closest Stiles would get to open congratulations with algebra still on the horizon. As a result, the weird looks jumped up a notch, and the whispers started.

It was _awesome_ , and the feeling lasted right up until someone hip checked him into a locker after first period, causing him to nearly drop his history book on his toes. He clutched his shoulder with an exaggerated groan, before turning to watch them—her—walk away with a swish of her long, dark hair over a distinctive red jacket. He didn't have to see her face to know that had almost definitely been Cora Hale. Great.

Stiles pulled out his phone, slow moving because his shoulder was a little sore now and texting was harder with just one hand.

**FYI**  
**your sister just slammed me into the wall**

It took until midway through Mrs. Norberry's lecture on human nature for Derek to respond, but that made sense; Stiles was ninety percent certain Derek had gym that period but second lunch, and he didn't seem like a super chatty texter anyway, Sunday's weirdness aside.

DH: **Sorry**  
DH: **I'll talk to her**

Stiles made a face, both at the unexpected apology and the offer. As much as he would've liked to avoid that entire situation, he and Derek really needed to stop working separate on this. Besides, this was a good chance to show that he was hypothetical boyfriend material. Nobody braved terrifying relatives if they weren't _serious_ , and honestly, his boyfriend résumé could use some bulking up.

**no thanks, i'll just see her at lunch.**

He paused, and glanced up to make sure Mrs. Norberry was still focused on whatever she was writing on the board. It looked important. Probably was.

Stiles typed out his next message quickly. His fingers were shaking.

**we are pretending i gave you that hickey right?**

He hit "send" and practically flung his phone back in his bag, determinedly not glancing at it for the rest of the period. The weight of his backpack against his shin taunted him. 

It was probably for the best, anyway—he didn't want to know what sort of punishment Mrs. Norberry would come up with for not paying attention the week after their class had just finished reading _Lord of the Flies_.

***

Stiles was relatively well known for his quick planning skills, so it probably surprised no one that he figured out how to approach the looming Hale-shaped issue in a little under a minute, somewhere between the third period bell and reaching his locker. As much as Scott grumbled about being left alone during lunch after hearing his plan, Stiles knew that he probably appreciated the opportunity to pine for the newest transfer student in peace. Stiles himself appreciated the break; Scott had kept shooting him these looks that were quietly impressed and a little disgusted all through algebra, which Stiles interpreted to mean he should tell him the truth about Derek sooner rather than later. He…kind of didn't want to, and he was not ashamed at all to say he took the easy way out, practically diving out of the lunch line as soon as he'd paid. 

His phone chimed with an incoming text before he had a chance to go very far, and he fumbled it out of his bag with one hand. His hope for an easy answer was dashed, however, when he read the message.

DH: **Don't be an idiot**

Well. How the hell he was supposed to interpret _that_ , he had no idea. He decided to wing it, and hoped he was good enough at improvising to pull it off.

Plan made, his eyes scanned the lunch room, unwittingly pausing on Lydia and the rest of her table with a longing glance before he forced himself to move on. Fortunately, it didn't take too much searching before he spotted that familiar red jacket in the crowded cafeteria. Cora Hale was—thank goodness—sitting alone, at least for the time being, and Stiles knew this was his chance. He speed walked to her table, nearly dropping his phone in his applesauce when his foot caught an edge of loose carpeting in his haste.

It was only after Stiles set his tater tots and sad burger across from a glaring Cora Hale that he remembered why he should have been more cautious about the whole situation; she wasn't the local kick boxing champion for no reason, and he was sitting right across from her. His balls were in dangerous proximity to her feet of fury, something that she was clearly aware of, judging by the way she immediately tensed. Her hands were braced on the table like she was ready to go Karate Kid protagonist on his ass if he so much as breathed too heavily, and Stiles took that as a sign, probably a sign that he should've left this to Derek.

Oh well; there were certain things people had to brave for love, and apparently angry younger sisters were one of them.

Stiles tried, as best he could, to exude confidence and belonging.

"Sup?" he asked, and then offered her a tater tot. Hey, he'd never said he was subtle, and food had already worked on one Hale.

Cora looked wary, but accepted one greasy potato from his plate, no doubt selecting the very crispiest of his small mound, and set it aside. Stiles breathed a little easier.

"What do you want?"

"To chat. We're classmates, we should be able to chat." Not that Stiles had ever tried before, really—Cora was that particular combination of artist and athelete that intimidated the hell out of him, a combination which meant that they had very little in common besides French class and Derek, who Stiles did not have in any way. Well, usually.

Cora was obviously not in on that little scheme, however, judging by the way she was silently eying him while stabbing her spaghetti pointedly.

"How was the movie?" Cora finally asked, expression severe like an action hero out to avenge their fallen comrade. 

Stiles groaned in response and flung out his hands in a helpless gesture, nearly losing his milk. He would never believe that particular question was just casual conversation again, a suspicion that was confirmed when Cora narrowed her eyes at his lack of immediate response, looking murderous.

"Oh my God, Cora! It's _one_ hickey. It's not like we took the Camaro to make out point. We even drove to the movie separately! In separate cars!"

"It's _not_ just one hickey," Cora said, before tearing viciously into her garlic bread. Which, wow, okay, really? Stiles deliberately did not follow that train of thought. "And he wouldn't talk about it. He kept glaring at me every time I asked."

"This is different from usual how?"

Cora scowled, chewing on a bite of bread like it had personally offended her.

"Just tell me what you're doing with my brother." 

There was an edge of threat to her tone, and Stiles made himself shrug, deliberately casual.

"Seeing movies. Texting a lot. Getting along, mostly." That last one was weird to him, now that he thought about it. He pushed it from his mind. "I mean, you know Derek. He's not a big gesture kind of guy."

Cora's expression shuttered immediately.

"He used to be." She poked at her spaghetti, a little less violently than before. There were chunks of mystery meat in it; Stiles winced and offered her another tater tot, which she accepted. "Look Stilinski. You seem…okay, but Derek is my brother. All right?"

Despite not really explaining anything, Stiles got it. He had Scott, his dad—he _understood_ , and so he forced himself to nod solemnly.

"I know. I promise I'm not going to, like, hurt him. Or anything like that."

The words felt weak, but Cora looked a little less mean in response, even let a small smile slip out when she looked back down at her tray. The expression was brilliant, no surprise there; she was a Hale, after all.

They went back to their lunch in silence, right up until Cora's friends showed up and Stiles retreated back to his own table. He felt strangely guilty for acting suitably boyfriend-like when it was all a ruse, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that, if nothing else, he'd actually keep that promise. 

After all, it wasn't like Stiles would ever have the power to hurt Derek Hale in this lifetime.


	4. Chapter 4

While it was something of a miracle that Stiles survived his encounter with Cora and then survived again during their little grammar tat in that afternoon's French class, Stiles was forced to admit the risk had been worth it. He and Cora would never be best friends—the distrustful looks made that obvious enough—but now when he passed her in the hallway, he received a grudging head nod in acknowledgement before they continued pretending the other didn't exist. It was progress and it was worth it, even if he still found her somewhat intimidating. 

All this was irrelevant, however, because Stiles's efforts had a much larger effect, one that became immediately obvious when Derek Hale plopped down at his and Scott's table one morning, without so much as a cleared throat in warning.

It was hilarious to see Scott's eyes bug out in response, and even Stiles jumped. The surprise was probably intentional on Derek's part, judging by the fact he followed it up with a smirk before deliberately settling deeper into his chair. Stiles considered flicking a cheerio at him but settled for knocking his knee into Derek's. Derek bumped him back significantly harder, and Stiles glared.

"You're kind of an asshole sometimes, you know that right?"

Stiles was rewarded with an eye roll, to the soundtrack of Scott choking on milk.

He was also handed a card made of thick, glossy paper, and after a glance, Stiles was ready to forgive anything. There were only a few people who bothered to issue formal invitations to a high school party, and he knew who was responsible for this before Derek even spoke, thanks to the distinct custom card. He'd enviously watched other people get these before, and now he handled his own invitation almost reverently.

"Lydia's throwing a Halloween party. It's on Friday—I'll pick you up."

Stiles stopped being stunned long enough to raise an eyebrow at that, because _hello_ , he had his own car and she was amazing. He wouldn't give up the opportunity to be chauffeured around in the Camaro, obviously, but it was still a rude assumption, even if, upon checking, the invitation seemed to place Stiles firmly in the camp of Derek's plus one. Stiles tried not to be disappointed.

And anyway, there was a bigger problem, something he couldn't ignore even for the lure of a Halloween party.

"What about Scott?" Stiles asked before looking back at Scott, whose eyes were still as wide as saucers. "We normally, you know, hang on Fridays." Not that Stiles would have preferred video games to a _Lydia Martin party_ ; it was the principle of the thing.

Derek rolled his eyes, and pulled another invitation from somewhere inside his jacket. Scott accepted it with a fumble.

"Scott can come too, obviously. There's room in the backseat," he said, with a warm smile directed at _Scott_ , like Stiles wasn't even there. Stiles huffed and crossed his arms, prepared to launch into a speech about fake boyfriend etiquette (or something) when Scott thankfully snapped out of his shock and awe.

"Thanks, Derek," he said, his friendly, dopey smile back in place. "I'm sure I can find a ride, though. Me and Cora both."

He looked at Stiles pointedly, like Stiles owed him for orchestrating alone time in the Camaro, with Derek. Like Stiles wasn't devious enough to plan his _own_ makeout sessions if he wanted to; he could've been offended about that, but he settled for throwing a stray cheerio at Scott's face. The shot went wide.

"Thanks, Scott. _Thanks a lot_."

Derek seemed to take that response as a yes, even though Stiles hadn't really said anything even remotely like it, not to him. Selective Hale Hearing: Stiles was convinced it was a thing.

"Okay. See you around eight on Friday, then," Derek said, and then he promptly stood and walked away without so much as a goodbye. Stiles watched him go, and waited until his impressive form turned the corner before discreetly pumping his fist. He actually had butterflies in his stomach, how awesome was that?

"Yes! Everything is all going according to plan, Scotty, I tell you."

Scott sniggered and finally threw a frosted flake back at him. It was damp with milk and hit Stiles's eyelid, but he was too excited to really care.

"I can see that."

"A Lydia Martin party, can you believe it? We've never been invited to a Lydia Martin party!" Stiles continued, all but bouncing in excitement and his thoughts already tripping into fantasy. Lydia's parties were the stuff of legend, and more importantly... "She'll actually be there. I could _talk_ to her, Scott!" Well, once Derek and Marcus had disappeared, anyway.

Scott, rather than sharing his excitement at the news, scrunched his face in confusion.

"Wait, you still like Lydia?"

"Uh, obviously." Stiles spread his hands, sure all the evidence was in front of him. "She's the Arwen to my Aragorn, Scott, we've talked about this."

Scott's expression didn't shift back. If anything, confusion melted into concern.

"But…what about Derek?"

Oh. Right. That probably looked bad, and Stiles—to his everlasting shame—didn't have a ready answer, not for Scott.

"We've only been going out for a few weeks, Scott. It's not that serious," Stiles finally said, but the excuse didn't sound all that convincing, and Scott knew him better than that anyway. Stiles had fallen in love with Lydia in _minutes_ ; theoretically, Derek should have been no different.

Scott bit his lip and shifted forward in his seat, his interest in breakfast postponed. 

"Do you think, maybe, that it's not serious because you still think Lydia's your Arwen?"

It was a valid point, or would have been, if Stiles and Derek had been an actual thing. Rather than admit it, though, Stiles just pointed an accusing finger at him.

"I don't want to hear it, Mr. Romeo-and-Juliet, our-love-can-never-be, just because Allison moved _schools_. In eighth grade." 

Stiles knew he had a point since he had heard about it at length, for months; the memories were _seared into his brain_.

Scott looked unapologetic, though, and also not distracted at all. Clearly, Stiles was not getting out of the concerned Scott conversation that easily.

"I'm just saying, maybe try a little?" Scott chased cereal idly around his bowl with his spoon, then perked up, something else clearly occurring to him. "Besides, can you imagine what _Cora_ would do if you…if Derek…well, if Derek ever…"

Scott trailed off, mouth apparently unable to form the words. Stiles didn't blame him; it would sound absurd to anyone.

"Ha," Stiles said, but it didn't feel like a triumph, not really. "Dude, you can't even _say_ it. Derek Hale isn't going to fall in love with me, okay, so everyone needs to get that out of their heads right now." Stiles sighed, more than a little tired of explaining at this point, but he owed Scott more. Maybe not the whole truth, but some of it. "I'm sure it's not even going to last the year. It's just a…a casual thing. Because Derek decided he wanted all up on this hot bod, and vice versa. Emphasis on _vice_."

"Okay. Okay, Stiles."

Scott looked a little sad at the thought, but he thankfully went back to his cereal, seeming convinced by the answer. 

Stiles waited a moment in silence, but when nothing else was forthcoming, he did the same.

***

Getting ahold of Derek before Friday long enough to actually _plan_ how they were going to handle the upcoming party was harder than it should have been, and in desperation, Stiles pounced on the first opportunity he saw: the tail end of Thursday's lacrosse practice. To the few onlookers nearby, Stiles hoped his quick grab and drag looked like a sexy pounce motivated by Derek in a wet uniform, but realistically, it probably looked more like the first awkward attempt of a lion cub trying to take down a gazelle.

Either way, Derek was not impressed when Stiles shuffled him off to a bathroom on the other side of the school, both of them still clad in sweaty, muddy lacrosse uniforms. The sudden rainstorm in the last few minutes of practice hadn't been kind to either of them, and it definitely showed, with mud in every uncomfortable crevice. Oh well—Stiles was a fan of traditions, and important scheming in bathrooms at inopportune times was theirs.

Derek clearly did not agree.

"Whatever this is couldn't have waited until _after_ my shower?"

Stiles shook his head vehemently, as much in disagreement as an attempt to avoid being distracted. There was a time and a place for thoughts of Derek in the shower, and that was when _Stiles_ was in the shower. At home.

"No, it really couldn't." Stiles waved an arm around, dripping mud by the pile in the process. "You just gave me that invitation, dude; you have to tell me the plan too!"

"What plan?"

Stiles lost more mud in his hurry to encompass the two of them, and even though Derek scowled at the trail Stiles was rapidly leaving, he didn't seem any more forthcoming about whatever was going on in his scheming brain. Stiles rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"You know, _the_ plan? Like, how are we going to sneak Marcus into a high school party?"

For a split second, Derek looked baffled.

"Why would Marcus want to go to a high school party?"

"Wait, he's…not coming? To Lydia's Halloween party?" Stiles had been prepared to offer suggestions, possible smuggling routes for obvious adults and then hints of how to hide him in plain view, but he hadn't been prepared for that.

" _No_." Derek sighed and wiped a bit of mud off his cheek, seemingly ignoring the way his hair hung in a dirty mess across his forehead. "This party's for _you_ , you idiot. So you can talk to Lydia."

Stiles opened his mouth, but no sound came out, not immediately. Maybe he should've guessed, but he honestly hadn't thought of it, of the idea that Derek would actually take him to a party, him _and_ Scott, in order to uphold his end of the bargain. 

Now that Stiles had to think about it, he wondered if he hadn't given Derek enough credit. After all, Derek was a man of his word; he'd run a student council campaign on getting all the lunch periods extended fifteen minutes, and by God, _he'd gotten those fifteen minutes_. Probably, one party contaminated by the uncool wasn't that much to ask.

Stiles wondered if he should apologize.

"We still need to coordinate costumes or something," was what came out instead. It earned him an eye roll, which was about the only thing he'd actually expected from the conversation.

"We really don't."

"Uh, we totally do. Derek, your neck looked like you got freaky with one of those tank cleaning fish from the pet store. We're _that_ couple—steps must be taken."

Derek made a disgusted face, and Stiles hoped it was because of the fish thing.

"Thanks for that image, Stiles."

"Hey, I'm just calling it like I see it." Stiles shifted, oddly nervous. "Our best bet is, like, being deliberately mismatched. You know, because no one wants to see Puff the Magic Dragon making out with Katniss Everdeen."

"That…is the weirdest costume combination I've ever heard."

"Well, you try it then." Stiles twisted his hand in a vaguely encouraging gesture. "Characters who don't want to kiss each other, go."

Derek was silent for a second, his lips pursed. His entire face was damp from rain and mud; it shouldn't have been attractive.

"Batman and Superman?" He finally threw out, and Stiles snorted.

"No way. Have you even _read_ the comics? The Batman vs Superman movie will end with epic makeouts, mark my word."

Derek huffed. Stiles chose to believe it was as sign of agreement.

"Fine. How about Boromir and Aragorn?"

Stiles gaped in disbelief.

"It's like you're not even trying!"

Derek scowled, face like a thunderstorm, and threw his hands up in exasperation. While it probably wasn't his intention, the gesture released a clod of cold mud from his sleeve into the air, a dripping mess with stray grass sticking out of it. Stiles watched it descend as if in slow motion.

It landed on Stiles's face with an audible _plop_ , and they both froze. For about a minute afterwards, they stood there in silence, Stiles because he was trying to stop himself from laughing and probably inhaling mud, and Derek because silence was his natural state. It only made Stiles want to laugh harder.

"…I'll just text you," Derek finally said, sounding uncomfortable, to which Stiles could only nod and blink away mud.

Derek all but ran out the door, and Stiles finally gave in to his laughter. He did end up inhaling mud.

***

Unfortunately for Stiles, texting without the possibility of mud to the face did not make the conversation any better. After Stiles sincerely— _sincerely_ —suggested Han Solo and Chewbacca and Derek responded back with a couple of characters from _Grease_ , it was clear that no compromise would be reached. They agreed to just plan their costumes themselves, and hope the odds were in their favor.

Stiles was not counting on Derek showing up on Friday at eight on the dot, clad in his leather jacket and with his hair in a patented fifties style. How accurate the rest of the costume was, Stiles couldn't have guessed, but the _hair_. It was swept back from his forehead, higher than it usually was, and it made him look like he'd been pulled straight out of a movie poster.

Stiles stared.

"You were serious. You actually wanted to be a character from Grease." Stiles flapped his arms, the gesture more dramatic than usual thanks to his wookie suit. "I thought you were kidding!"

"And you wanted to be a _wookie_ ," Derek said flatly, looking bewildered. Stiles didn't understand immediately, and when he did, he could've laughed.

"Oh no. Dude. Even _I_ know you're the Han Solo in this relationship. This is my dad's costume." His dad, who had provided the costume before he'd left for the station, and possibly busted a gut laughing on the drive there. Stiles felt like he'd earned the right to wear it after that.

Derek, though, looked like his brain might break at the thought of the intimidating Sheriff of Beacon Hills wearing a wookie costume.

"You're kidding me."

"Nope," Stiles answered back with glee. "Little me wanted to be Han Solo every year from, like, ages four to ten, and Scott was always okay being Luke. It was an investment." He paused. "I'm totally disappointed that didn't last longer, actually—I liked being Han once a year."

"You'd make a good one." Derek smiled, looking charming and smooth. "He's kind of a smart ass. And didn't he get kidnapped that one time?"

Stiles pointed one furred finger at him.

"Ha. Ha ha. Aren't you a funny guy?"

Derek shrugged, wearing an expression of false modesty while he turned and gestured Stiles to his car. Stiles followed the direction easily and tried not to moan too obviously as he slid into the passenger seat. He must have made some noise, because Derek looked at him strangely before he buckled himself in. 

It wasn't until they roared out of the driveway and were halfway down the street that Derek said anything, however.

"Well, at least you got your wish." Stiles turned to look at him, and Derek surprisingly elaborated without prompting, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in an absent rhythm as he did. "I mean, no one would expect Chewbacca and Danny Zuko to be making out."

The point flew over Stiles's head, because he couldn't let that comment slide.

"Dude, you know the Grease guy's _name_. Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?"

Derek didn't take his eyes off the road, but Stiles could see the beginning of a scowl anyway.

"It's one of my mom's favorite movies. Laura's too."

"Oh." 

Stiles fell silent after that, not sure what to say. He was the last person who wanted to question a mom thing, even if Derek's mom was still among the living and busy terrorizing the criminal element of Beacon Hills.

The drive remained quiet all the way to Lydia's house, and Stiles couldn't even enjoy it. Derek didn't seem annoyed, not really, but the air felt wrong, empy and tense, like Stiles _needed_ to say something.

They parked alongside the curb, two blocks down from the Martin house in the nearest parking spot available. Before Derek got out, Stiles stopped him with a hand on his arm. He told himself it wasn't an apology, but an offering. Only fair.

"My mom's favorite movies were the Star Wars trilogy. That's why I was Han, all those years." And why he stopped, he didn't have to say.

Derek relaxed, just a little, under his hand.

"Your mom had good taste." He looked away, towards the Martin house with it's festive decorations and pumpkins on the lawn. "Are you ready to go meet Lydia?"

Stiles wasn't, but he couldn't very well say that. This was his chance. They'd made a deal.

He sighed and climbed out of the car, already too hot in his full body costume.

"After you."

***

Stiles's first impression of his first high school party was that it was too crowded, a thought which probably brought shame to teenagers everywhere. In his defense, though, Lydia had apparently invited not just half their school but half of each school in the neighboring towns, because he could count on one hand how many people he recognized from his vantage point at the front door.

Stiles didn't realize how close he was standing to Derek until he caught a whiff of hair gel and leather, and he forced himself to pull back. Derek didn't seem to notice, too busy skimming the crowd like a man on a mission.

"See, there's Scott." Derek pointed to a shadowed corner near the stairwell on his right. There was actually more than one stairwell; the Martins were pure class.

Stiles followed his direction and saw Scott dressed in the laziest costume ever, his own lacrosse uniform. It seemed to be working for him, though, judging by the way Kira was staring at him, completely captivated with his every word. Stiles chuckled a little to himself. Go Scotty.

"And there's Danny, and Erica, and Boyd." More pointing. Stiles got the feeling Derek knew he was overwhelmed, and was trying to give him a way to navigate it all. People instead of north stars, just so he could find his way around. He pressed a little closer to Derek anyway, and then Derek ruined his quiet, non-obtrusive skulking by reaching back and _grabbing his hand_.

Even with his fingers covered in wookie fur, it still made his hand suddenly feel over warm. Sweaty—it was good there was a layer between his skin and Derek's, otherwise Stiles might die of awkwardness.

"Come on, I'll show you the kitchen. That's usually where they keep the booze, but I'd stay away from the punch and anything that's in a blender."

Without waiting for a response, Derek proceeded to push his way through the crowd like he was a linebacker rather than a lacrosse captain, something that was mostly unnecessary since people parted for him. It was only the fact that Stiles was tethered to him that kept him from getting squashed in the crush that immediately followed, and so he held on tight.

The kitchen was a little quieter, except for a few people who were already deep in their drinks and going back for more. The majority of the booze seemed to come in the form of three giant kegs, which looked out of place in the gleaming wood and granite of the kitchen.

As soon as Derek released his hand, Stiles yanked off the top of his costume and dove for a solo cup. He wasn't going to turn down free beer, even if—on taking a sip—it was a little flat. Oh well; he chugged the rest and immediately went for a refill. Before he could raise it to his lips again, however, Derek took his cup.

"Hey, aren't you the sheriff's son? Slow down, eat something, or you're going to have a killer headache tomorrow." Derek glanced around the kitchen, but didn't find what he was looking for, judging by his frown. Stiles made grabby hands towards the cup, and Derek handed it back to him absently."Look, I'm going to go look for Cora. Can you stay here for a few minutes? I'll show you around afterward."

Stiles nodded. Stay by the booze? No problem, even if the offer to go with Derek nearly left his lips instead. Derek left the kitchen before he embarrassed himself, though; it wasn't like Derek needed help finding his wayward sister.

Stiles was forced to revise that opinion when he was still standing in the kitchen half an hour later. He wondered if Derek had forgotten about him, if he'd gotten distracted, if Marcus had called. It wasn't a good feeling, the idea that Derek might have just forgotten, and after one more refill of his cup, Stiles pushed out of the kitchen and into the crowd. He didn't need a babysitter anyway.

It was a lonely fifteen minutes before he spotted Lydia, dressed like an actual angel in one corner of the Martins' massive living room. By some miracle, she was standing mostly alone, with no sign of Jackson anywhere.

Stiles took a sip of beer for bravery and then seized his chance, slipping through the crowd as quickly as he could. He smiled when he caught Lydia's gaze, because she didn't look away, not immediately.

By the time he was only a foot away, Lydia was squinting like she was trying to recognize him. Stiles told himself it was because of his costume. The head was off now, but still, anyone would be confused if they saw his head over half a wookie costume.

"Oh." Her expression thawed marginally. "You're Derek's boyfriend, right? Are you new?"

Stiles felt his heart plummet. Because, yes, getting Lydia to know him had obviously been the goal of this whole scheme, but he hadn't expected her to just not recognize him at all. 

"Uh…no." _We've shared the same classes since third grade_ , he didn't say, but he felt a little bitter anyway. "I'm Stiles. We've, uh, met before."

"Oh, sorry! Are you enjoying the party?" She asked, still smiling. Stiles's own smile was feeling a little tight, and his answering laugh probably came out a little too loud.

"Well, yeah, of course I am." He waggled his solo cup pointedly. _Who doesn't enjoy free booze_ was sort of his motto right now, actually, since Scott was somewhere and Derek had disappeared. "I think I saw someone passed out on that windy barrister thingy too." The 'and it's not even nine-thirty' was implied, because it was funny. Scott would have agreed.

Lydia's smile fractured, quickly fading into pursed lips and eyes spitting fire.

"Are they really—ugh." She ran a hand through her perfect hair, tousling it out of order beneath her halo. It still looked perfect to Stiles. "I told them not to go to the third floor—it'll take weeks to get the smell out of the carpet." She smiled at him again, but it was distracted. "Excuse me."

Lydia darted away with a flick of her angel wings, and Stiles was suddenly left standing there, alone in the crowd, holding his solo cup. He didn't see anyone he knew, and when he tried to smile at some people nearby, they ignored him.

The only things he remembered for the rest of the night were drinking too much, and Derek stopping on the drive back to buy him greasy diner food in an attempt to sober him up.


	5. Chapter 5

After waking up on Saturday with a sour taste in his mouth and a splitting headache, Stiles was determined to bury himself in blankets and ignore everything and everyone for the remainder of the weekend. It unfortunately did not go according to plan, since his dad came in a few minutes later with his Disappointed Parent face on, a glass of water and a plate of pancakes in his hands that had Stiles's stomach doing somersaults. They didn't say one word to each other while Stiles dutifully ate, silence that he took as a blessing until his dad wordlessly gave him a shopping list and another disappointed look before he left. Stiles took the hint and decided to take his miserable, hangover-ridden body on the road before the lecture that was brewing could actually make it into the open.

His plans to ignore everyone _else_ didn't work out either, simply because no one tried to contact him for the rest of the weekend. Scott—as Stiles gathered from two brief, generic texts—was blissfully going on a first and then second date with Kira, but there was no word from Derek at all, which seemed unusually inconsiderate. The silence was ominous, and with nothing to distract him from his hazy memories of Friday, Stiles came up with all sorts of reasons for the silent treatment, each one worse than the last. Stiles had vomited in his car, and Derek was plotting his demise. Derek was busy making out with Marcus, and couldn't care less if Stiles was alive or not. Stiles had embarrassed himself so thoroughly that Derek had decided he was hopeless, beyond help, and so he was breaking off their deal. Derek didn't even want to be his friend, and he certainly didn't care if Stiles had vomited up pancakes in a Safeway bathroom.

It was a miserable two days, and when Monday came and Stiles realized that he'd forgotten about the psychology homework due that day, it only got worse. Scott took one look at his scowling face and apparently decided not to say anything about the bags under his eyes or his vile mood, but that only added guilt to Stiles's frantic and awful morning. 

There was still no word from Derek, not even when Stiles fired off several texts of his own.

Around lunch time, Stiles tipped from worry and self-pity to anger. Whatever reason Derek had for ignoring him, it wasn't like Derek was entirely blameless either for Friday's faux pas; he'd disappeared. As much as Stiles knew he didn't need a babysitter, he could've used a friend on Friday, and Derek hadn't come back. Stiles was spotty on the details, but being left alone to fend for himself for hours had felt shitty, still did, and now Derek was being unhelpfully silent. He was also a ghost in the hallways; Stiles didn't spot him once, even though he was looking.

By the time lacrosse practice rolled around, Stiles was sure the anger was rolling off of him in sickening waves. Even Jackson steered clear in the locker room, and then— _and then_ —there was Derek, standing on the field like nothing had happened.

Stiles pasted on a smile, but he gripped his crosse tightly enough that his hands cramped after a few minutes. When it was his turn to practice shooting at the net, all his shots went embarrassingly wide.

Coach looked at him with disgust over his clipboard.

"Bench it, Bilinski, and try to aim _at_ the net tomorrow."

Stiles bit back his smartass comments with difficulty, but in the end he simply nodded, cheeks burning, and trudged over to the bench. The other players were laughing, and Stiles couldn't help but think it was laughter aimed _at him_. It figured; he couldn't wait for practice to be over, for this _day_ to be over.

He enviously watched the other players for a half hour before his wish was granted, but before he could flee to the locker room with everyone else, a shadow fell over him. Stiles sighed, and braced himself for Scott's earnest concern.

"Stiles? Are you okay?"

It was surprisingly not Scott, although when Stiles looked up, he saw Scott lingering on the field, fidgeting nervously and watching them. Derek had apparently asked him to hang back, or Scott had of his own volition, which was weird.

Stiles, however, refused to be distracted. He was _angry_ , dammit.

" _Am I okay_ ," Stile repeated darkly, pulling off his gloves and dropping them on the bench with more force than necessary. He glared up at Derek, the expression somewhat ruined by the sun in his eyes. "You couldn't have asked that on _Saturday_?"

Derek looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me. You said, on Friday, that you 'hated all of us popular kids.' I thought I'd give you some space." Derek looked guilty for half a second. "Sorry."

While it didn't get rid of his anger exactly, the explanation and weak apology at least curbed Stiles's urge to hit him with his crosse. The popular kids bit sounded like something out of an eighties sitcom, and thus, exactly something Stiles was liable to say when drunk and upset.

Stiles sighed and waved the all-clear at Scott, who grinned brightly before disappearing inside.

"I didn't mean _you_." Whether Stiles could remember or not, he was certain of that. Because Derek was okay, when he wanted to be and when Stiles remembered. "Whatever, it's fine. I mean…whatever. How's Cora?"

The most obvious subject change in the history of subject changes was answered with an eye roll before Derek abruptly sat beside him on the bench, his expression annoyed and familiar.

"She forgot to charge her phone, and then she left the party without telling me. I thought she'd been abducted or something."

Stiles had to admit, as far as reasons went for ditching him at his first party, that was a good one.

"You're a good brother."

Derek shrugged, attempting indifference even though the tips of his ears were rapidly turning pink.

"Yeah, well. Laura used to look out for me, so I look out for Cora. I still should have told you or something, at least before you started drinking the punch. Sorry."

"Dude, stop apologizing, it's freaking me out." 

Another shrug, and then silence. Stiles, for possibly the first time in his life, wanted the quiet to stay; it was better than talking about the party.

Derek, though, seemed determined to drag every last painful word into the open.

"It didn't go well with Lydia, did it?" Derek's voice was gentle but awkward, like he was talking to a kid who'd fallen and scrapped his knee. 

Stiles's cheeks burned.

"No, no it did not." Stiles wondered if Aragorn had ever been brushed off by Arwen. He doubted it. "I'll just have to try again, I guess." The proclamation didn't sound as confident as he'd hoped it would, but Stiles couldn't help his defeated tone. It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that Lydia hadn't even remembered him, hadn't bothered to. He wasn't just her classmate; he was a complete non-entity in her life, that weird kid no one recognizes every time he gets a haircut. That was a more significant set back than he'd been prepared to cope with, and somehow, he doubted popularity-by-association would help very much.

"Yeah." Derek stared at him, reading something in his face that Stiles couldn't begin to guess. "You know. I know some nice girls, if you…if you want to try. Someone else."

Stiles wondered if it was that easy, and decided it probably was for people like Derek, who could pick from anyone. Stiles, though, felt hollow at the thought of trying. 

"No, it's okay. She…well, we could be friends, right? And then see where it goes."

Stiles had a suspicion that the answer was _it'll go nowhere_ , and judging by the pitying look on Derek's face, he felt the same. Stiles was just glad that he apparently had more tact than to say that out loud.

"Okay. We'll try again. I'll help this time."

It sounded like a promise. Stiles didn't know what he could do other than accept when Derek sounded so earnest and bumped his shoulder gently. Despite the smell of sweat and the lacrosse jersies in the way, the gesture was warm. Comforting.

Weirdly enough, Stiles appreciated it more than the promise of a second chance with Lydia.

"Yeah. Sure."

At least he'd have Derek there.

***

As if to make up for the lost weekend, Stiles and Derek texted frequently over the course of the week. It wasn't anything important, mostly tentative plans for the weekend (Marcus wanted to go to a club, apparently, which Stiles interpreted as "wanted an excuse to rub all over Derek") as well as several texts about Stiles freaking out over that Thursday's dinner, while simultaneously worrying about French homework. Derek helped with that too, because Derek, being the multilingual freak he was, apparently also knew basic French. All in all, it made Stiles extremely grateful that he had an unlimited text plan, otherwise his dad might have had something more to add to the usual "meeting the boyfriend" speech he no doubt had planned.

Then Thursday came, too quickly, and Derek showed up to dinner with a cherry pie. A _cherry pie_. Stiles had to barricade the door, blocking it with his body before his dad saw. He nearly knocked it into the bushes on principle, but Derek was faster, lifting it out of his reach.

"Derek, my dad will eat that in like _one sitting_ ," Stiles hissed, voice furious and low. "He's on a diet. He can't have _pie_."

"It's low-sugar, and low-fat. My dad made it." Derek leaned forward, lifting the plastic wrap up just enough for Stiles to see the perfectly latticed crust and to catch a whiff of tart cherries and buttery crust. "He won a state fair back east with this recipe. And you and I can eat most of it."

"You're a terrible enabler," Stiles said, but he moved aside anyway, even holding the door open. It was only because he'd been raised to be polite, and not at all so he could check out Derek's ass in his dress slacks. "Are you trying to get adopted? You look like you're here for a job interview." He was wearing a tie even. A tie! That, combined with the fact that he was clean-shaven, made him look like he was about to start handing out brochures about the merits of accepting total hotness into your life.

Derek didn't seem bothered about Stiles's open goggling, though, since he was too busy looking around the small but recently cleaned Stilinski livingroom. 

"Well, it is a first impression, right?" 

Which, no, it was not, but Stiles didn't want to bring up the Hales' No Good Very Bad Day any more than his dad probably did. So, close enough.

"Well, at least you don't have any hickies right now." There was a clatter from the kitchen. "Not that you would! Because we aren't doing that. Obviously."

"You can stop while you're ahead, son," his dad called out, and Stiles felt his cheeks flush. Derek, at least, didn't look any better, and when his dad came out of the kitchen, Derek all but thrust the pie at him.

"For you, sir. It's my dad's recipe."

The pie was accepted with a grave nod, which Stiles thought was overselling the occasion a bit. His dad was even in his uniform, complete with the belt he normally shed as soon as he got home. It was an intimidating look, which was probably the point.

"Why, thank you very much, Derek." Yes, definitely overselling it. "Why don't you go into the kitchen and have a seat? I'm sure Stiles can get you dished up. We're having meatloaf."

"That sounds wonderful, sir," Derek said, politeness incarnate, an impression which was ruined somewhat when he gave the sheriff a wide berth and all but scurried to the kitchen table.

Stiles shot his dad a look, and received a grin in response. He rolled his eyes.

"Thanks to the bad cop routine, you don't get any pie."

"Try and stop me, kid."

Stiles knew he wasn't winning that argument this time, and so he settled for dishing up the plates as quickly as possible. His dad and Derek didn't appear to be talking, which meant everything was already awkward and likely to stay that way. Stiles gave Derek an extra large piece of meatloaf in apology, while making sure to load his dad's plate with broccoli, broccoli, and more broccoli. He presented the plates with a flourish and sat a family-film appropriate distance away from Derek; judging from his dad's look, it was the opposite of helpful.

"So. Derek." His dad folded his arms across his chest and stared Derek down. Crap. "How old did you say you were, again?"

"Eighteen, sir."

Derek took a bite of his meatloaf after answering, projecting an air of calm so hard that Stiles was almost impressed. His own bite of meatloaf went down like dry toast in the desert.

"And you're dating my sixteen-year-old son."

"That's right." 

No explanation given, no excuses. Stiles didn't know if that was better or not, but at least his dad dropped that line of questioning.

His next question, however, wasn't any better.

"And you're aware that he was in love with that Martin girl for years."

Stiles made an inarticulate sound of mortification, something he didn't have to fake at all. If Derek and he had been at all what his dad suspected, Stiles would have wanted to curl up in a ball under the table for at least a week. As it was, he fought the urge to go get seconds on dinner even though his plate was still nearly full, anything to get away from that conversation.

" _Dad._ "

"I just want him to know that you get into these things for the long haul, son," his dad said, still sporting a serious expression. Stiles didn't know how much of it was for show at this point. "If Derek's thinking about college in the next year or so, that's a lot to take on for a first relationship."

"With all due respect, sir, I've already thought about it."

Stiles whipped his head around to stare at Derek, because _what_? His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.

"I mean, long distance relationships can be hard, but I think it'll be worth it. I was thinking about trying for Chico State, too, and the drive isn't bad."

Chico State. It took Stiles a minute to get it, but when he did, he felt like an idiot for…he didn't know what for.

Derek was talking about Marcus. Of course he was; Stiles had almost forgotten that Derek was only really here so he could date someone _else_ , and obviously it was an easy story to stick to.

"Right. Uh, what he said, Dad."

Derek smiled at him, expression bright and giving every impression of completely besotted. Something in Stiles's chest _hurt_ , and he forced a smile while he poked at his meatloaf. He suddenly didn't have much of an appetite.

His dad seemed pleased, though, which Stiles tried to take as a success.

"Chico State, huh?" His dad finally began to eat, and he didn't even comment on the abundance of broccoli. "Were you going to try for a lacrosse scholarship? You're the team captain, aren't you?"

Derek continued to smile even while he answered, and the conversation stayed casual after that, the tension that had been in the air completely diffused. Stiles wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he still felt uncomfortable all through dinner, restless, like his Adderall had worn off early. By the time everyone was ready for dessert, the feeling was mostly gone anyway, and Stiles got to watch his dad wax poetic about the pie between bites while still fighting to keep his stern parent face on. It was hilarious, and when Derek pushed his dad to keep the leftovers, no really, Stiles knew the sheriff was now firmly pro-Derek.

When Derek left, Stiles's dad even _shook his hand_ , and offered to have him at dinner again, seemingly without needing input from Stiles. Stiles wasn't sure how to feel about that, because as far as he could see, the dinner had gone as well as could be expected, and there was good news and bad news. 

The good news was, his dad apparently adored Derek.

Unfortunately, that was also the bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone who's read this far! My job is unfortunately picking up (it always gets busier in the summer) so for those wondering, I wouldn't expect another chapter until mid to late July. It's unfortunate, but them's the breaks.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and see you all in July!


End file.
